


love me like i'm gone

by bluelines



Category: Women's Hockey RPF
Genre: Amnesia, F/F, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 15:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14696742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelines/pseuds/bluelines
Summary: Gillian wakes up and doesn't remember the past 4 years of her life.Meghan does.





	love me like i'm gone

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's tropey, but I had to.

Gillian wakes up confused.

It feels like she has a massive hangover. When she tries to remember if she had enough to drink to _be_ hungover, she can’t remember the night before, and she’s sleeping on her back. She never sleeps on her back. It feels like someone has driven a railroad spike into her forehead. 

She opens her eyes. The room is dark, but she doesn’t recognize the ceiling, and spends a few seconds wondering if she’s even seen her ceiling enough to know what it’s supposed to look like. She can’t believe how fucked up she is. She’s never had so much to drink that she blacked out and forgot anything, but she can’t remember the night before, she can’t remember what she had for breakfast, and she can only kind of hazily remember the last time she was on the ice. Not the date, not anything specific, just that she was in practice like she should have been, and--there’s a possibility she might have hit her head.

She tries to turn her head and groans at the effort. It feels like she’s been hit by a truck. She tries to remember if she’s played Team USA lately, but she’s halfway through that thought when her head turns far enough for her to understand where she is: in a hospital.

“Fuck,” she mumbles. She has an IV in. She starts to panic when she realizes that means she can’t get out of bed without yanking it out. She hears a noise on her other side and jerks her head around, but doing it hits her with a wave of pain so strong she’s sure she’s going to throw up for a second. She screws her eyes shut and tries not to worry about what the noise was, but she knows, she can tell there’s someone else in the room. She desperately hopes that it’s her mom, and even though she’s 28 the thought brings her close to tears.

“Hey,” someone says, a female voice, but not one she immediately recognizes, “Gill, hey, you’re okay.”

Gillian doesn’t open her eyes right away. She’s not sure that she can. The person talking is touching her forearm, attempting to comfort her, which makes Gillian think it might be a nurse, but she’s not sure why a nurse would be calling her by her nickname. Regardless, it is comforting, and it pulls her just back from the brink of panic.

She swallows hard and says, “something is really, really fucked up.”

“You’re okay,” the voice repeats, stroking her arm again, “you were in an accident, but you’re okay. You probably feel like shit but the doctors said you won’t have lost any mobility anywhere. You were really lucky you didn’t break anything, just scrapes and bruises.”

“And my head,” Gillian says, “my head feels like--”

She opens her eyes again and finds herself staring square into Meghan Duggan’s face. She gapes and Meghan lets go of her, sitting back in the hospital chair, her mouth set in a thin line, her brows furrowed. Gillian’s never seen her this close without a helmet on, and it’s weird, unsettling, like being way too close to a wild animal that you know is supposed to be a fence apart from you.

“How old are you?” Meghan asks. Gillian interprets it as a chirp, but her head hurts too much to try to figure out what’s going on. She wants the IV out. She wants her mom.

“Twenty eight,” Gillian says, “why are you here?”

-

Meghan somehow manages to call Gillian’s mom, brother, and sister before she breaks down on the phone with her own parents. She can tell they’re worried about her so she keeps it short, but when she hangs up she curls into the front seat of Gillian’s little car and cries so hard that it feels like she’s going to shake apart from the inside out.

They were lucky Gillian was driving her car and not this thing, but it’s worse having to cry in Gillian’s car, a car that Meghan can remember countless road trips in, a car where Gillian had cruised down the pike with her hand on Meghan’s thigh. All things that Gillian doesn’t remember.

When she gets home Kacey is already there waiting for her outside the front door with a bottle of wine and her face twisted up in concern that makes Meghan’s heart clench. They don’t even make it inside before Meghan buries her face in Kacey’s neck and cries again.

“Oh, Megs,” Kacey says, wrapping her arm around Meghan’s shoulders, “come on, let’s order a pizza.”

It’s a sign of how bad things are that Meghan not only lets Kacey order a pizza but also eats a slice, miserably, cross-legged on her living room floor.

“Okay,” Kacey says, “we need a plan of attack.”

“She doesn’t remember me,” Meghan says, for the fifth time that night, “she looked at me like a total stranger. I _am_ a total stranger to her. That was hard enough the first time, trying to convince her that she could really trust me, open up to me--”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Kacey says, “don’t think about her trust issues yet. Thing number one is: what are you going to tell her?”

Meghan puts her face into her hands.

“Her doctors weren’t expecting her to forget so much,” Meghan says. “They told me not to rush her. She’s been told what year it is and that she coaches in Boston, but they told me to try to ease her into it, to give her some time to deal with that before….the other things.”

Kacey slides off of the couch and onto the floor next to Meghan, sliding an arm around her shoulders again. She doesn’t say anything else, just rests her head on Meghan’s shoulder, and Meghan finishes her glass of wine and lets herself breathe. Every second she spends like that makes things clearer, makes her feel more capable. It’s not the end of the world. It’s Gillian’s first day awake. She’s going to remember, and they’ll get married, and this will be a story they’ll tell their kids one day. She can handle that.

“I’m going to make up the guest bedroom,” Meghan decides, “and tell her that we’re roommates.”

“I will help you,” Kacey jokes weakly, “but I’m not touching her underwear.”

-

Two days later, Gillian’s parents drop her off at a house in a cute, shaded neighborhood of Boston, in front of a multi-family home with red shutters. Her home. They keep telling her that.

“We can come in with you,” her mom says, and Gillian immediately wrinkles her nose. She feels twelve again, like she’s being dropped off for a playdate. She shouldn’t be nervous. This is her life.

“No,” she says, “I’m fine. I feel fine. I’ll call you later and we can go to dinner or something.”

“Is your appetite back?” her dad asks, craning hopefully around from the driver’s seat, and their concern makes Gillian feel worse.

“No,” she says, “but it will be. I’m okay. I’m going in.”

She says it half for her own benefit. She’s tired of feeling like a kid, and more tired of the gap in her memory that feels like it’s eating away at her brain.

Her name is Gillian Apps. She’s twenty eight years old. Team Canada just lost the Four Nations gold to the United States, and centralization for the Olympics is a year away.

Her name is Gillian Apps. She’s thirty two years old. She coaches college hockey and hasn’t played in years. 

Both of those people are her, and she’s doing her best to try and be the second one when she unlocks her own front door. Her name is Gillian Apps and Meghan Duggan is her roommate.

“Oh,” Meghan says, from the kitchen, visible from the foyer, “I didn’t know you were coming home.”

“Sorry,” Gillian says, “I should have texted you.”

“It’s fine,” Meghan says, and goes back to chopping up vegetables. Gillian closes the door behind her and continues feeling awkward in her own foyer, fumbling with her phone.

“Oh,” Gillian says, “um, actually, my phone got fucked in the car wreck so I don’t have your number anymore.”

Meghan puts down her knife. She comes to Gillian in the foyer, and Gillian hands her phone over. She spends the seconds that it takes Meghan to type her number in looking around the foyer. There are pictures-- pictures of her when she was little, from Dartmouth and since then, and pictures of Meghan, too. There are some group pictures that she’s not sure about. There are a lot of decorations. It’s a home that looks put together, like adults live in it, a feat Gillian had never been able to pull off in her twenties, at least as far as she remembers.

Meghan hands the phone back, but she doesn’t go back to the kitchen right away, and Gillian scratches the back of her neck.

“Are you feeling better?” Meghan asks.

“Yeah,” Gillian says, “my head doesn’t hurt much anymore. It’s just like, a normal headache. I can’t take any Advil for it though. I’m supposed to go back if it gets worse.”

“I’m glad,” Meghan says, “we were all really worried for a bit there.” 

Her voice is really distinctive, a mottled accent that almost sounds a little Canadian. Gillian thinks of saying that, but she’s not sure how it would go over, how sensitive Meghan is about the rivalry now. Apparently not much, since they live together. It probably helps that Gillian is retired.

Meghan smiles at her and goes back into the kitchen. Gillian stands there for another few seconds before she decides her best bet is probably to wander. She does that, into the living room, and she almost knocks a picture of her and Jayna over when Meghan says, “your bedroom is the first one.”

Gillian is relieved that she didn’t have to ask. She’s apparently downgraded to a full bed, but it’s a nice little room. She opens the closet and stares at clothes that she barely recognizes. She can hear Meghan moving around in the kitchen, and she sits on the edge of the bed, trying to decide whether her headache is from the concussion or the confusion or both. Do they tiptoe around each other? Are they just respectful cohabitants? Somehow she sort of doubts it. With her salary she could be living alone, if she wanted to, probably.

She ends up catching sight of herself in the mirror and walking towards it, drawn to her reflection even though there’s a part of her that doesn’t want to look. If she doesn’t look too closely, she’s more or less the same. The closer she steps the more she notices. There are laugh lines around her mouth and crows-feet around her eyes. Her hair is an inch or two shorter than she remembered, and darker, like she’s getting it touched up. She wonders with a rush of terror whether she might be going gray.

The muscle that should stand out in her shoulders and upper arms is gone. She’s lanky in a way she doesn’t remember being since high school, and it makes her feel awkward in her clothes, like her limbs are all too long. She does not have abs. Checking for them makes her feel stupid. She’s very carefully inspecting her side profile when Meghan clears her throat from the open doorway and Gillian jumps out of her skin.

“Sorry,” Meghan says, “shit, sorry. Um, I made a salad for lunch and it’s huge so if you wanted any, if you’re hungry--I just thought I’d let you know. And also um, if you want to, any time you want to talk. I’m sure you have lots of questions.”

-

Having Gillian in the apartment is worse than worrying about her.

Meghan wants to hug her, and the fact that she can’t is making her so antsy she can’t sit still. Gillian treating her like a perfect stranger has her feeling all sorts of barely manageable feelings: hurt, grief, frustration, fear, and guilt. If she had been in the car--

It’s a stupid line of reasoning she’s been over before. Gillian sits across from her at the table and eats her salad quietly. Meghan resists the urge to ask her any questions, and gives her space.

“This is really fresh,” Gillian observes.

“The cucumbers and lettuce are fresh from the garden,” Meghan says, narrowly avoiding the use of the word ‘our’. Gillian raises her eyebrows, but she doesn’t look up. Meghan clears her throat and says, “the goat’s cheese is from the farmer’s market, too.”

“I love goat cheese,” Gillian murmurs, and Meghan wants to say she knows, wants to say that Gillian had been the one to buy it. It’s hard not to treat Gillian like she’s being surly, hard to remind herself that GIllian doesn’t remember anything about their life together. Meghan has to be patient, but doing it makes her hurt for Gillian all over again.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Gillian says, “but it’s kind of hard for me to believe that we’re good friends.”

Meghan almost leaves.

The rush of feelings is almost too much for her to handle. She puts a forkful of salad in her mouth just to keep from saying anything. She wants to lock herself in their room--her room-- and cry, but she has to help Gillian, because there’s nobody else who can.

“We are,” she says, once she’s swallowed, “I can prove it, if you want to see pictures. Believe it or not, you really like me.”

-

Meghan’s not lying. Gillian didn’t really think she was, but it helps to have concrete evidence, in a way. Meghan shows Gillian a series of the group pictures up around their shared apartment. The first one makes Gillian spend at least twenty seconds staring at herself. Her style is totally different. She looks more put together than she ever expected to, like she suddenly became an adult somewhere between 28 and 32. She looks comfortable and happy with her arm slung around a woman she doesn’t recognize. On her other side is someone she _does_ recognize, or at least someone she thinks she does.

“Is that Kacey Bellamy?” she asks.

“Yep,” Meghan says, and Gillian might be imagining it, but she sounds a little smug.

“My life is pretty different than I expected,” Gillian says, because it seems like the nice way to ask how she ended up here.

Meghan hands her another picture. This one is pretty obviously at a sports game, and it takes GIllian a second to recognize the colors and logos. A Patriots game. She doesn’t know who she is anymore, surrounded by American players, at an American football game, but the Gillian in the picture is beaming back at her. She’s never seen herself like that. She’s not sure that she knows what that feels like. 

“I don’t really think I know what you mean,” Meghan says, and there’s something weird about her voice but Gillian is avoiding eye contact hard enough to notice the engagement ring on Meghan’s hand in the picture. She looks up from the picture to check Meghan’s hand, and it’s not subtle. There’s no ring.

“Um, you--”

“I was engaged,” Meghan says, very quietly. It’s as if all the air has gone out of her. Her shoulders sag a little bit, and Gillian doesn’t press it. It’s clear that Meghan is upset. What’s not clear is the blinding panic that induces in her, for a second, before she gets a grip. She won’t ask. She has plenty of other questions.

“So,” Gillian says, “am I a good coach?”

Meghan smiles. She’s still a little quiet, but the smile, even if it’s fake, is nice. _She’s_ nice. Gillian remembers Meghan as a stone cold bitch on the ice, the type to shove you into the boards and then laugh at you when you chirped her later, the kind who would blast right past you and embarrass you and your goalie in the most disrespectful possible ways. That doesn’t seem like this Meghan. Gillian wonders if she’s still playing.

“Well,” Meghan says, “you went to the final four in your first year, so…”

She sounds proud. Gillian grapples with that for a second before she reminds herself that they were friends, close enough to live together, to go do things together. Of course Meghan would be proud of her friend’s accomplishments. Everything just feels so upside down. She chews her lips and tries to make her question sound nicer for almost thirty seconds before she gives up.

“Am I only friends with Team USA players now?” she asks. She tries to make it funny, and it works out when Meghan sort of laughs. It’s just an exhale, but Gillian will take it. It feels really important to make Meghan laugh right now. She looks about as upset as Gillian is about losing her memory, which doesn’t make much sense, but then nothing else does, either.

“No,” Meghan says, “we just all live here. You’re friends with the women you coach with, but they’re former Team USA players, too, so--I mean, no. You’re still friends with your friends in Canada. I promise. They come visit sometimes.”

Gillian cannot fathom why she would have moved from Toronto to the hotbed of USA Hockey, but she knows better than to say that. She and Meghan were clearly close, whether she understands it or not.

“I’m surprised any of you wanted to be friends with me,” she says instead. Meghan’s face does something funny and she turns away, heading back into the dining area and taking her plate to the kitchen. She’s staring into the sink when she answers, and Gillian decides to look at the pictures instead of at Meghan. Meghan’s wearing an engagement ring in a handful of them. It’s not small, but it’s not obnoxious, either, and Gillian wonders whether any of her friends up in Toronto would know the whole story.

“Some of us were skeptical at first,” Meghan admits, “but there’s a lot to like. And once you retired it wasn’t like any of us had to play against you, or anything. There’s still plenty of friendly chirping, but...I don’t know. We all adapted. You’re one of us down here, whether you believe it or not.”

She sounds so sad that Gillian feels bad for even bringing it up.

“I must be,” she jokes, “because I’m wearing a Patriots hat in this one,” and that pries a smile from Meghan.

-

Meghan dreams. It’s the first time since Gillian’s accident that she sleeps long enough and deeply enough to have a dream, a real one, and it’s the kind of dream that makes her wake up twenty minutes before her alarm, sweating, the sheets tangled in her legs. It wasn’t a nightmare, but waking up is. She reaches blindly over to Gillian’s side of the bed, wondering in her half-asleep panic whether or not she’s made this all up, but of course she hasn’t. Gillian isn’t there. That side of the bed is cold.

All she actually remembers from the dream is Gillian. There was no story to it, just Gillian, something about the sunlight and Gillian’s fingers laced with hers, Gillian’s lips and the smell of the ocean and a wash of other nameless sensations that make Meghan so nostalgic for a moment that it takes her breath away. She’s crying before she realizes it. That’s been happening too often lately. Knowing that Gillian is so close, that a wall is all that separates them, makes things worse.

Meghan gets out of bed and slips into her closet. She had chosen carefully, raking through their things to find something Gillian had bought more or less recently, something that could have belonged to either of them. She still feels guilty, but the truth is that she’s lying to Gillian about bigger things than the fact that she’s kept one of Gillian’s sweatshirts, and she’s not awake enough to be ashamed of herself yet when she digs it out from under a pile of her own sweatshirts.

She doesn’t realize until she’s curled back in bed and crying again that the sweatshirt won’t smell like Gillian for long. Holding it like this won’t help that, but Meghan needs it. Gillian is a room over, too close and too far away. Meghan cries as quietly as possible, terrified that Gillian will hear her, until she runs out of energy to even do that. She doesn’t want to go back to sleep, but her body doesn’t care. This time, with Gillian’s sweatshirt held so close to her face, she knows what she’ll dream of.

-

Gillian hears Meghan crying. 

She wouldn’t have, if she had been able to sleep, but of course she can’t, and she’s propped up against her pillows reading a book that she wonders whether she’s already read. She hears Meghan moving around in the next room, but she doesn’t think anything of it until she realizes that she’s hearing something else, something muffled occasionally, and when she registers it as crying it’s like the bottom drops right out of her stomach.

Meghan is crying.

Gillian had been just on the edge of sleep, and her first thought is that she needs to go in there, to go to Meghan. It makes no sense, and she shakes it away fuzzily, but the urge to check on Meghan doesn’t go away. She doesn’t get up. Meghan must be crying about her, about the accident, and showing her face isn’t going to help Meghan at all. Gillian’s smart enough to know that.

So she doesn’t move. She just sits there and reads the same two sentences over and over until Meghan is quiet again.

-

The next morning Meghan wakes up with something missing.

There’s some fundamental _something_ that’s just not there anymore, and it’s more than Gillian missing from the other side of the bed. It’s something related to the fact that she’s going to have to go into the kitchen and pretend like she doesn’t want to wrap herself around Gillian for a week. She’s in crisis mode, shutting down, and she has no interest in fixing that.

Gillian is already in the kitchen when Meghan gets there, sitting quietly at the counter with a book that Meghan’s seen her reading before. 

“Morning,” Gillian says, and Meghan tries to smile at her, but she’s not sure if it works out.

“I wasn’t sure what food was mine and what was yours so I didn’t touch anything,” Gillian says.

Meghan should have thought of that.

“We don’t really do it like that,” Meghan says. “It’s more of--if you finish something you buy it next. That sort of thing.”

It’s not a thing that adult roommates do and she knows it. She’s sure Gillian knows it too, but she tries to say it with enough confidence to play it off. 

“If you don’t like that we can separate stuff,” Meghan offers.

“Oh,” Gillian says, “no, we don’t have to do that. It’s cool.”

-

Gillian doesn’t know what to do with herself. In some ways it’s a relief that Meghan is so busy, because being around her is still awkward and stilted, but in others it’s frustrating. There are some books on the shelves that she doesn’t recognize enough to tell whether they’re hers or Meghan’s, but she can’t really focus for long enough to read, so she mindlessly flicks through channels, settles on a cooking show, and starts to go through her clothes.

She’s not really sure why. She just wants an inventory. That can only entertain her for so long, so she ends up trying half of it on, just to see what she looks like. She doesn’t recognize herself. She looks older. She looks settled. And that’s unsettling. She tries to imagine what her life was like before--coaching, commuting a bit to do it, living in this apartment, but there’s so much space that’s empty. What else did she do? Read, maybe, cook, go outside, but she doesn’t know where she is yet, and she’d be embarrassed about getting lost in a city that she’s supposed to understand.

She’s so lost in her own head that the knock on the door startles her. She runs a hand through her hair--an awkward length, but she can’t figure out why--and forgets entirely to check the peephole before she swings her own front door open. 

Kacey Bellamy is standing in front of her with two coffees and the most awkward smile Gillian has ever seen.

Somehow that’s the thing she gets stuck on. It’s like Kacey _should_ be smiling with all her teeth, but instead she’s keeping her lips tightly together, and it just looks goofy. Gillian takes a couple of seconds to process what’s happening, but Kacey doesn’t seem to mind.

“Meghan’s not here,” Gillian says, and it comes out snappier than she intended.

“Oh, I know,” Kacey says, “I’m here for you, believe it or not.”

Gillian blinks.

“Weird, right?” Kacey says, “I know, I don’t have a jersey for you to pull over my head, but I promise you do it verbally all the time.”

“Well that’s a relief,” Gillian manages, stepping back to let Kacey inside.

“I’m not sure if I got your order right,” Kacey says, handing the cup over. It’s Dunkin, and Gillian hesitates. 

“Trust me,” Kacey continues, “you drink Dunks now. You have to. You live here. You like the flavored stuff.”

Gillian takes the coffee and heads for the couch. Kacey follows, and it’s so strange. Gillian can’t think about what she should say because she’s too busy trying to understand what she’s feeling. There is something familiar about this, about Kacey in that sweater, about the taste of this coffee and the arrangement of the furniture. It doesn’t feel wrong for Kacey to be here, but _that_ feels wrong. Gillian’s never really spoken to her past the handshake line. Except that she has.

“So,” Kacey says, “how are you doing?”

“Uh,” Gillian says, “weird. I mean, I’m okay. I feel fine, I’m not really hurt, just bruised and scraped up a little, but, you know. It’s weird. I don’t feel like I live here.”

She’s definitely said too much. Kacey presses her lips together and nods, shifting her grip on her coffee. Gillian had never taken a good look at Kacey before, but Kacey must look older, too. They all do.

“Are you still playing?” Gillian asks, and Kacey looks up to make eye contact with her, a little startled at her speaking at all. Gillian understands; she’s a little surprised at herself.

“Yeah,” Kacey says, “Meghan and I both play for--oh, Jesus, this is going to be a headache to explain. There’s a second league now, we play for that league, for the Boston Pride. But yeah, internationally, too.”

Gillian decides not to ask about the leagues. She doesn’t want a headache, and it doesn’t look like something Kacey wants to talk about. Instead she does the mental math and comes to yet another realization. She has a feeling there are going to be a lot of those moments, epiphanies about things that everyone knows but her.

“It’s 2017,” she says, “spring, right?”

“Yes,” Kacey says.

“So centralization is soon,” Gillian continues, “for the Olympics. For--who won?”

The look on Kacey’s face tells her everything. Kacey is trying to be nice about it, but she has to take a second, and Gillian can read between the lines when given Kacey’s downcast eyes and the slump of her shoulders as she shifts on the couch.

“Uh, you,” Kacey says, “you guys won. Overtime.”

Gillian stops just short of apologizing. She could have looked it up, but then that wasn’t the answer she was expecting, if she’s being honest. She decides to change the subject, because Kacey seems willing to give her real answers, and Gillian’s not afraid of asking some actual questions. Kacey’s different, not broken up about her the way her parents were or even the way Meghan was. Gillian guesses that they must have been more distant friends, maybe just acquaintances, people who saw each other because they shared Meghan’s friendship. It doesn’t feel quite right, but then nothing really does.

“Did I like it here?” she asks, and then corrects herself, almost scalding her tongue on coffee that’s still a little too hot. “I mean,” she tries again, “it’s so foreign to me, you know, I’d never--other than Dartmouth I’d never lived away from Toronto, away from home.”

“You definitely liked it here,” Kacey says. “I’m a little biased because I want to say it’s the best city to live in, period, but it really is great. There’s a lot to do. And the girls at BC love you.”

Her players. That’s a foreign concept, too. She’s done camps before, of course, worked with kids, but never the same ones for more than a week except for repeat customers and she knows it isn’t the same. They’re probably all worried about her, if they know, and--well, they must know. Someone would have told them by now. Her coworkers, the other coaches, women she doesn’t know.

“I feel bad,” Gillian says, “it’s stupid, because I’m the one who got hurt, but I still feel bad that everyone’s got to tiptoe around me now. I feel bad that I don’t remember.”

“Maybe you will,” Kacey says, offhand, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, but it feels like she’s trying too hard. 

“Either way,” she says, “we’re all just glad you’re okay, otherwise.”

Gillian wonders who ‘we’ is. Her family seems relieved, but otherwise it’s not a feeling that she’s gotten from anyone else. She realizes after a few seconds that it’s Meghan she’s thinking of. Meghan had not seemed relieved. 

And Kacey thinks that she’ll remember.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Gillian says eventually, and Kacey smiles at her. She looks like she wants to say something but stops herself, finishing off her own cup and pressing her lips together like she’s self-editing. Gillian resents that, but not enough to stay irritated for longer than a few seconds.

“I’m around,” Kacey says, “if you need someone to talk to or if you’re bored. You have my number. I know it’s weird for you, because the last time you remember seeing me was probably during a game, but we were friends, and we can be again if you want.”

“We are friends,” Gillian says firmly, and Kacey blinks at her, startled.

“I can tell,” Gillian clarifies, but it doesn’t feel like much of a clarification. Still, Kacey smiles, and Gillian feels better.

-

Gillian’s habits are different.

Not all of them, but some, enough that Meghan notices. It’s a little bit weird and intimate, like she’s seeing what it would have been like to live with Gillian right when they started talking. She goes to the store and buys things that Meghan’s never seen her eat, things with enriched flour in them, chocolate that’s not dark, a bottle of non-organic pulp-free orange juice that makes Meghan wonder if Gillian’s been putting up with her pulpy juice for years.

“There’s a lot of sugar in that,” Meghan observes. She wants to kick herself for not being able to stop it coming out of her mouth. She sounds like GIllian’s mom, not her friend, or her fiancee. Gillian makes eye contact when she takes a gulp, which hits Meghan hard. That feels like _her_ Gillian, like a Gillian that loves to tease her.

“I love sugar,” Gillian says.

“Wow,” Meghan says, “your body is gonna hate that.”

“I’m retired,” Gillian says, “I can eat what I want.”

“That’s true,” Meghan agrees. It’s true, but it’s not something her Gillian would ever say. Meghan knows it’s just that Gillian’s priorities, in her 28-year-old-mind, are different, but it stings to remember that means she’s not on the priority list at all.

Gillian makes a face and puts the glass down. Meghan tries not to look too smug while she brews her coffee.

“Fuck,” Gillian says, and once again Meghan is startled, “that sucked.”

Meghan shifts against the counter. She can’t remember the last time, before the accident, that she heard Gillian say ‘fuck’ casually, like it belonged in her mouth. She can remember Gillian being furious, saying it emphatically, but ages ago. She can remember Gillian saying it when she almost broke her toe on the dining room table leg. But this--this is different. She doesn’t remember it. She hates it. 

She clears her throat. Gillian looks at her, face still screwed up from whatever bad taste the juice left behind.

“I’ve been ruined,” Gillian announces, “old age has taken my taste buds.”

“You’re not used to having that much sugar,” Meghan says, “you don’t really do that anymore. Just occasionally.”

“Sounds like I’m boring and have bad taste,” Gillian mumbles. Meghan knows it’s not a dig at her, not purposefully, but it pisses her off a little bit anyway. Mentally, Gillian is realistically only a little younger than Meghan is in reality, but the difference between them feels massive. She supposes they’ve both changed a lot. The logic doesn’t help her feel much better about it.

“Coffee?” she offers, and Gillian shrugs.

-

“I don’t think Meghan likes me very much,” Gillian says.

“That’s ridiculous,” Kacey tells her frankly. She skates a slow circle around the net, then flips a backhand into it without really looking. She’s not actually doing anything useful anymore. She’s been skating for almost an hour, while Gillian leans up against the boards and wishes she could do the same. She’s not allowed on the ice, even with a helmet, but watching helps, a little. Chirping Kacey helped more.

“I don’t know,” Gillian says, “I just feel like I irritate her. Which is what I would have expected when I woke up, if you told me I was living with an American. I mean, I think that it’s what I _did_ assume.”

“You’re irritating _me_ ,” Kacey says, knocking a puck into the boards in front of Gillian, “stop. It’s not like that. It’s just hard for her to adjust to. I promise she likes you a lot. You guys were really close.”

Gillian doesn’t believe her. Or, if she chooses to believe it, she’ll have to understand that something she’s doing now has changed how Meghan feels about her, and it doesn’t feel like her forgetting is enough. It feels like she’s done or said something in particular to sour Meghan on her, and she has no idea what it could be.

“I feel like I was closer to you,” she says instead. Kacey’s expression changes, but she turns on her skates before Gillian gets a good look at it, then skates backward a bit before she returns to the boards and tucks her helmet under her arm.

“I cannot even begin to express to you,” Kacey says, “how wrong that is. Think of it like this. The closer someone was to you, the weirder and harder this is for them. Right? That makes sense.”

“I guess,” Gillian says. It does.

“So if she’s having the most trouble with it…”

“I don’t know how to talk to her,” Gillian admits.

“Sometimes I don’t either,” Kacey says. “Sometimes talking isn’t the right thing to do. Sometimes listening is.”

-

Meghan comes home to dinner.

She freezes in the foyer when she smells it. It’s her favorite meal, she can tell from the combination of smells, and it hits her so hard that she’s sure she’s going to cry. Gillian hasn’t cooked since the accident, as far as Meghan can remember, and this, out of nowhere, is almost too much for her to process. Luckily Gillian is so busy in the kitchen that she doesn’t notice Meghan in the foyer, clinging to the coat rack, trying to get her bearings.

If Gillian has remembered--

She doesn’t want to let herself hope for that. Instead she toes off her boots and goes into the kitchen, where Gillian is standing over the stove.

“Hey,” Gillian says, when she finally notices Meghan leaning against the island, “I’m pretty good at this, huh?”

Meghan swallows past the lump in her throat. The last time Gillian made this Meghan was having a hard week and she can remember the wine that they opened, can remember falling asleep on the couch tucked under Gillian’s arm, with her face turned into Gillian’s neck. She can remember Gillian waking her gently, getting her to bed. She can remember waking up in the night after that and pulling Gillian’s back to her front.

“It’s in your genes,” she says, finally.

“I found this,” Gillian says, gesturing with the wooden spoon to one of their cookbooks, “and this page was marked and I could tell it had been turned to a lot, so I figured I’d try it. I don’t really remember, but my hands do, I guess.”

Meghan tries not to think about it, but she ends up watching Gillian’s hands anyway, wondering what else her hands remember that her conscious brain doesn’t. 

“Smells good,” Meghan murmurs.

“It’ll be done soon,” Gillian says, “I thought, um--I mean, I made it for us.”

Meghan goes to her room and changes into sweatpants in an attempt to make herself feel less like she’s on a date. It works, just a little bit, and taking her makeup off helps, too. She putters around so that she doesn’t have to watch Gillian work, knowing that if she did she’d spend the entire time with her eyes fixed on Gillian’s shoulders, and before she knows it she’s sitting across from Gillian at their dining room table over her favorite meal, feeling as if nothing has changed at all.

“This is my favorite,” Meghan admits, after the first mouthful.

Gillian looks up, a little surprised.

“Oh,” she says, “the cookbook is yours then, I guess?”

Meghan isn’t sure how to answer. She takes another bite instead, and tries to come up with an answer that feels less like a lie than ‘yes.’

“You’re better at cooking,” she offers, which isn’t a lie at all. She can’t actually remember whose cookbook it is.

-

After dinner, Gillian goes to the bathroom and comes back to find Meghan washing the dishes. For some reason she hesitates in the threshold and watches. Meghan has no makeup on, and the slope of her shoulders in her t-shirt is telling enough that Gillian is very aware of how much muscle there is beneath it. Meghan is still in playing shape. Gillian hasn’t asked, but she can sort of tell that Meghan is still an athlete. She can’t tell if what she’s feeling is jealousy or not.

She comes into the kitchen and joins Meghan at the sink.

“You don’t have to clean,” she says, and Meghan blinks at her.

“No,” she says, “you cooked, I clean.”

“Is that how we do things?” Gillian asks. Meghan gives her a look, but Gillian isn’t sure what it’s supposed to be.

“We can do things however you want,” Meghan murmurs. She leaves the sink, with the dishes half done, and Gillian standing in her wake.

Gillian can’t understand why she feels so hollow while she finishes the dishes. She can’t make heads or tails of what Meghan’s saying or doing, and she feels so _old_. Something about the combination of tastes dinner has left behind, the smell and the feeling of the warm water moving over her hands, feels so familiar that she spaces out a little bit.

And imagines something.

It’s the same sink, the same smells, the same water running over her hands, but this time there are arms winding around her waist, hands slipping into the front pockets of jeans that she’s not wearing right now, a kiss pressed to her shoulder. She has no idea who it is, because she doesn’t turn her head, and she realizes then that it’s a memory. A memory of someone with her in this kitchen, someone she loved, someone whose face she can’t see no matter how hard she tries.

The harder she tries to recall who the woman is the more her head hurts, until she ends up dropping the pan, which clatters against the bottom of the sink. She curses under her breath, pressing the back of her hand to her temple, ending up with soap suds in her hair.

By the time she’s done with the dishes she’s exhausted and a little afraid of her headache. She doesn’t take anything for it, just brings a tall glass of water with her into her room, but she falls asleep before she can drink half of it, and she doesn’t dream.

-

“I don’t think she’s ever going to remember anything,” Meghan says.

“Megs,” Kacey says, “it’s been a month.”

“The doctors said she’d probably remember within a week or two,” Meghan says. She hesitates, then winds up and aims a slapshot at the top right corner of the net. It pings off the top pipe, which feels apt. When she turns, Kacey is staring at her, her face drawn up into a concerned pout under her bucket.

“They didn’t think it was this bad,” Meghan says.

“Did they say that?” Kacey asks, “did--has she gone back, I mean, did they say at the office that it’s worse than--?”

“No,” Meghan admits, “I don’t know, I don’t go with her. I don’t think so. Does it matter?”

Kacey skates a slow circle around her. Meghan feels cornered, and tries to keep her expression as neutral as possible. 

“I can ask if you want,” Kacey says. “For all she knows, I’m nosy all the time.”

“Don’t do that for me,” Meghan says, “it doesn’t really matter, knowing what the prognosis is isn’t going to make her remember ay faster. I just feel like if she was going to remember she would have already.”

Saying it makes her feel, embarrassingly, like she’s seconds away from crying. She’s not usually embarrassed to cry in front of Kacey, but she refuses to do it in pads and a helmet anymore. She’s here to do a job.

“So what if she doesn’t?” Kacey asks. Her slapshot goes top shelf. Meghan almost sits right down on the ice.

“What do you mean, so what?” Meghan says, rounding on her, “that’s--she was my whole life.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Kacey says. Everything is so much easier for her. Meghan can’t even watch her stick handle. It feels like she’s been moving through molasses since Gillian’s accident, and she’s running out of time before centralization.

“Anyway,” Kacey continues, “just think of it as a bad breakup. Some of us have to deal with those, the kind of breakups where--you know, you were together for ages, and you thought you were going to marry them but it doesn’t work out, and then what do you do?”

“Stalk her on Instagram for six months,” Meghan says. Kacey whacks her in the back of the knee with her stick.

“And then,” she prompts, not taking the bait. Meghan can be just as stubborn. She doesn’t take the bait either. She just shrugs and takes a puck back around behind the net, and when her backhand goes in she breathes out a sigh of relief.

“And then,” Kacey says again, “you go out and fall in love again.”

“I’m not dating around,” Meghan says, “I don’t want anyone else. I’ll get a dog.”

“You should definitely get a dog,” Kacey agrees, following Meghan, who has snaked around to the other side of the rink, trying to keep her hips loose, “but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m not telling you to date around. You live with her. She fell in love with you the first time. Why wouldn’t she fall in love with you again?”

“Why would she?” Meghan counters.

Neither of them has a good answer, and she knows it. The prospect of trying to get Gillian to fall in love with her again simultaneously excites and sickens Meghan. It feels like cheating on Gillian--her Gillian--to try it, but there’s also a part of her that wonders if Kacey’s right, if Gillian would fall in love with her again, and again, in any time or place. 

She knows that if their circumstances were reversed, she would.

-

Gillian is almost relieved when they tell her to stop hoping for her memory to come back. 

Actually, she _is_ relieved. She tries not to show it, because some part of her knows what an inappropriate reaction it is, but the truth is she’s glad. She’s too comfortable knowing what she knows now, she doesn’t want to be jarred back into another existence, and the thought of remembering everything makes her feel like she--the person she is _now_ \--would be gone. 

Also, it gives her a headache.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor tells her, “we really wanted to be able to tell you something different. There’s definitely still a substantial chance that your memory will come back, in bits and pieces, but I don’t think that’s what you should be expecting, or working towards. Just adjusting to your life like it is now is probably what’s best.”

“I can do that,” Gillian tells him.

When she gets back to her car she sees that she has two texts from Kacey, and she has the urge to tell someone, someone other than her parents or her siblings who she knows will be bent out of shape about it. Kacey’s as good a person as any. She’s been more relaxed about the entire situation than anyone else. She’s the only one that laughs at Gillian’s blunt force trauma jokes.

She also picks up almost immediately, and Gillian doesn’t even bother to start her car.

“Hey,” Kacey says, “what’s up?”

“Turns out I hit my head harder than they thought,” Gillian says.

“You’re not dying, are you?” Kacey asks, “funerals are expensive, Apps.”

“My salary is more than enough to cover a modest funeral,” Gillian says, “I checked. Anyway, no, to my knowledge I’m not dying any faster than you or anyone else, I’m just probably not going to remember how I even got down here in the land of beans. Hey, also, why is it called ‘Beantown’? Should I be eating more beans here?”

“I don’t know,” Kacey says, “it has to do with pilgrims or something, I don’t remember. They taught us in like fourth grade, I was busy making spitballs. What did they tell you?”

Gillian rests her head back against the headrest. She realizes, suddenly, that her car doesn’t smell like new car, and that she never asked what happened to the car that she was in during the accident. All she knows is that she was driving it. She doesn’t even know what kind of car it was. So then whose car is she in? 

“Uh,” she says, trying to focus, “just, you know, not to expect that I’d remember anything. Just to kind of...start over, I guess.”

“Oh,” Kacey says, “well that’s a relief. Did you tell them you were already doing that? Do they know you went to an Ivy League? They should have expected you to be ahead of the game.”

Gillian licks her lips.

“I dunno,” she says. “hey, I’m gonna go home and nap, I just felt like calling, I guess.”

“For sure,” Kacey says, “hey, there’s trivia tonight at Hopewell, you should come.”

“I don’t even know what I _know_ ,” Gillian laughs.

“I didn’t say you should come to be useful,” Kacey says, “every team needs some comedic relief. Someone to sit there and look intelligent while we all panic and try to remember the names of the Jackson Five.”

“Jackie, Tito, Germaine, Marlon, and Michael,” Gillian rattles off. “Fuck, why do I remember _that_?”

“So I’ll see you tonight,” Kacey says, and Gillian knows she’s right.

-

It turns out that Gillian is not only invited to trivia, she’s still good at it. Meghan is annoyed at both things. Annoyed at Kacey for inviting Gillian and not warning her, and annoyed at GIllian for remembering the atomic number of Beryllium but not the day she dropped down on one knee in the snow and pulled out the ring that’s balled up in Meghan’s sock drawer.

“Oh,” Gillian says, when she sees Meghan and slides into the booth next to Kacey, “hey, stranger.”

“Hey yourself,” Meghan says. Kacey kicks her under the table and Meghan kicks back, maybe a little too violently.

It doesn’t get easier. Gillian can’t drink, and Meghan can, and she takes full advantage of that, and the tab that she knows is running. She’s too distracted to answer anything correctly, and Decker’s spending the entire night heckling Gillian, who gets along with her too well, almost better than she did before the accident happened at all.

“Hey, Dartmouth,” Brianna says, “quick, what’s 165 times 40?”

Gillian thinks about it. Meghan knows her well enough to know that she’s just pretending she needs that much time to calculate it. 

“6,600,” Gillian says.

“Holy shit,” Brianna says, way too loudly, “you guys, seriously, what the fuck.”

“Come on,” Gillian says, “they’re both divisible by five, that one’s a fucking breeze.”

“Did you hear her?” Brianna says, a little bit tipsy and a lot too excited, turning mostly to Meghan, “it’s a _fucking breeze_!”

Meghan is suddenly afraid Brianna’s going to get drunk enough to reference the accident in a way that lets Gillian know too much.

“Shut up,” Kacey says, and the tone of her voice lets Meghan know she’s worried about the same thing, “that’s not even the question, come on. Who was Frank Sinatra married to other than Nancy?”

Meghan stops counting drinks. Kacey closes the tab without asking first and she knows it’s because she’s drunk and Kacey’s worried about her. She’s in a mood, the kind of mood where being drunk just makes her quiet and surly, and she wants to go home. All of this is true before she notices Gillian watching a girl on the other end of the bar.

Realistically, she’s a little young for Gillian. She’s probably a year or two younger than Meghan, but Gillian doesn’t feel her age anyway, so it’s not a surprise. She’s blonde and a little willowy, and laughing with her friends at the bar in a way that sounds very practiced to Meghan. She’s not sure if anyone else notices, but _she_ notices the way Gillian’s watching, and it makes her want to shove Brianna out of the booth and go. 

But she doesn’t.

Part of her is too morbidly interested in watching Gillian flirt with someone that isn’t her.

“I’m gonna go talk to that girl,” Gillian says. It seems like it startles both Brianna and Kacey, who stare wide-eyed at Gillian, and then glance guiltily at Meghan. Meghan is curious to see if someone is going to try to stop her, but they don’t, obviously. They can’t without being weird, at least as Gillian is concerned. 

Gillian does it. She gets up, crosses the room, and does it. 

“Megs,” Kacey says, “don’t--don’t worry about it.”

“Kacey,” Meghan says, “with all due respect, please shut the fuck up.”

“Maybe she’ll fuck it up,” Brianna says. “Maybe that girl’s straight. Or taken. There’s lots of ways she might--”

“Not bring this girl back to our shared apartment and fuck her in my guest room?” Meghan finishes. She can taste the bitterness on her tongue, and she’s not sure who she hates the most. She really should leave. Go outside and call an Uber and wait for it around the corner.

“I really don’t think she’s going to do that,” Kacey says. “She seems like she would at least ask you first.”

“Great,” Meghan says, “I need another shot, Brianna, move.”

“Uh,” Decker says, “no. I’m not gonna do that.”

Meghan stares while Gillian flirts, leaning against the counter, laughing with her big toothy smile. Only the other girl’s face is visible, but it’s clear to Meghan that Gillian’s charms are working. She wonders if the other girl is loud in bed and if she’ll have to hear it. The jealousy swelling in her stomach makes her feel sicker than the alcohol would have otherwise.

“Don’t _watch_ ,” Kacey hisses.

“You did this,” Meghan says.

“Well,” Brianna says, “It’s not like she could have guessed that this would happen.”

“Oh,” Meghan says, “no, what, trivia at a gay bar? No way she’d try to get laid.”

“I was trying to be nice,” Kacey says. She’s upset, and Meghan knows that it’s down to her. She needs to leave before she hurts anyone else.

“Please get up,” Meghan says, shoving Brianna’s thigh. She doesn’t move.

Gillian comes back, and her smile is so huge that it makes Meghan feel like her chest is going to cave in. 

“Got her number,” Gillian says, sliding back into the booth.

“Great,” Meghan says, and Brianna kicks her.

“I’m gonna call her tomorrow,” Gillian says, “I don’t really know what it is, I just got a feeling--”

“Okay,” Kacey says, “so trivia’s over, are we staying, or--I mean, I don’t think anyone needs to drink any more, right? Tab’s closed.”

“Oh,” Gillian says. She looks crestfallen now, and Meghan can tell that she’s processing the mood. She looks like she’s not sure what to say next, and Meghan has no desire to save her from it. She feels ugly and sick and like it’s never going to get better than this. Gillian will never remember her, and she’s going to date and marry someone else, and they’re supposed to be friends so she’ll have to go to the wedding, too.

“I’m leaving,” Meghan announces. She can hear in her voice how drunk she is. She just wants to go to sleep. This time Brianna does move out of the way, and Meghan gets unsteadily to her feet.

“Hey,” Gillian says, “I’ll drive you, there’s no point in you taking an Uber or anything since we’re both going home.”

“Maybe I’ll walk it off,” Meghan says petulantly, swaying. Gillian puts an arm around her shoulders, and Meghan recoils, though she’s not sure how visible it is. 

“No,” Gillian says, “it’s far, come on. It’s fine. Get some water in you, too.”

Kacey and Decker disappear quickly, and Meghan tries to wriggle out from under Gillian’s heavy arm. If Gillian’s not going to kiss her, not going to remember wanting to, Meghan doesn’t want to be touched at all. 

“Meghan,” Gillian says, “I don’t know if I did something or said something to make you--not--I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing. And there’s a lot I don’t know. So if I did something to piss you off, I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” Meghan says, and her stomach heaves. “Fuck, I’m--I feel like shit.”

“You drank a lot,” Gillian says, “I’ll drive slow.”

They don’t talk again. Meghan presses her forehead against the window and tries not to puke or think about Gillian fucking someone else. Gillian drives slow, avoiding potholes, the way she used to when she was trying to keep from waking Meghan up on the way back to the rink. Meghan doesn’t look at her again before she goes inside and hides out, fully clothed on top of their--her--bed. 

She falls asleep waiting for Gillian to be done with the bathroom.

-

Carolyn doesn’t ever text Gillian back.

Meghan isn’t really talking to her. She doesn’t know what she did, but it feels like Meghan’s disgusted with her, and all she can trace it back to is that girl.

“Kacey,” Gillian says, holding the phone with the hand she’s not digging into the garden with, “that girl I was talking to at the bar, did Meghan date her?”

“No,” Kacey says, “uh--why?”

“She won’t even look at me,” Gillian says, “I don’t know. She confuses me. I want her to like me but it feels like the harder I try the more she hates my guts.”

“Wait,” Gillian says, having a sudden revelation, something about Kacey’s freckles, “were we--?”

“We?” Kacey asks, “like you and me? Jesus, no. And before you ask me you weren’t fucking Brianna either. God.”

“Well,” Gillian says, “then I don’t understand anything.”

Kacey is very quiet. Gillian thinks about Meghan in the kitchen the night that she’d cooked for them, how vulnerable and open she had been for that hour, and something occurs to her slowly and painfully. It’s not a realization, not a memory, but it’s something, and it feels like pulling a bandaid slowly off of the inside of her skull.

There’s no way.

“You should talk to her,” Kacey says.

“I tried,” Gillian replies. The woman with her arms around Gillian from behind, the memory--

“Sober,” Kacey amends. “Talk to her sober. Later today. Don’t put it off.”

It feels ominous. Gillian is fuzzy for the rest of the afternoon, trying to ignore the thought that keeps poking at her, what occurred to her on the phone. She wasn’t dating Kacey, but is it possible that she was involved with Meghan?

It doesn’t make much sense. She assumes someone would have told her as much. It would have been a pain to move her into a guest room and tell everyone that knew either of them to pretend it wasn’t the case. It’s far-fetched.

But it’s not impossible.

She doesn’t think about it long enough to consider whether or not it feels right, or explains things. Somehow she knows the answer to both questions is ‘yes,’ and she’s too tired and confused to give much time to either. She mostly putters around the apartment waiting for Meghan to get home, feeling like the shell of her actual self, barely putting the energy in that’s required for her to survive, listlessly paging through cookbooks in an attempt to remember something.

When Meghan opens the door, Gillian feels a wave of nervousness. Meghan glances at her and then ignores her, like she has since trivia night. 

“Hey,” Gillian says, closing the cookbook, watching Meghan toe off her boots and shed her jacket.

“Hi,” Meghan says, but it’s clear she doesn’t want to.

-

Gillian is being weirder than usual, and Meghan is suspicious immediately. Her first thought is that Gillian might have remembered something, because she’s having trouble making eye contact where she never has before, but Meghan doesn’t want to hope for it. Not anymore.

“Listen,” Gillian says, “can--can we talk?”

Meghan’s initial instinct is to make up something she needs to do, something to do with her hands while Gillian says whatever she’s about to say. Somehow it’s clear to Meghan that whatever it is will be huge, and facing it head-on isn’t something she wants to do, not while her and Gillian are so separate. She’s used to having Gillian on her side, still. Even now she keeps expecting it.

“Yeah,” Meghan says instead, because she doesn’t want Gillian to feel like she’s disinterested in the conversation, even if the idea of sitting and talking makes her feel distinctly nauseous.

She doesn’t sit down, but she waits, and Gillian leans back against the island counter, chewing on her lips. Meghan is hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong that she wishes she _had_ sat down. She can remember Gillian leaning against this counter months ago, exactly like this, listening to her rattle on about contract negotiations and the boycott. 

She had gone to stand in front of Gillian and used her thumb to smooth the worry lines from between Gillian’s brows. This time she just stands and wishes she had pockets to put her hands into.

“Who was I to you,” Gillian asks, “before?”

It’s a lot more straightforward than Meghan was expecting, and she rocks back on her heels a little bit, stunned. She wonders if Gillian remembered something and that’s why she’s asking, or if things had just gotten so uncomfortable that it occurred to her on her own; Meghan’s not sure which option she likes less. If Gillian remembered being in love with her and is still acting like this, Meghan can only expect that it won’t happen again. 

And she’s not sure how to answer. Instinctively she moves to lie about it, to say that they were dating, maybe, but she’s lied to Gillian long enough, even if she was following directions. She can feel it welling up in her chest, can tell that she’s going to say it, and hopes against hope that it comes out normal and not shouted or half to tears.

She measures her breaths. Gillian’s waiting on her to answer.

“We were going to get married,” Meghan tells her, “after the Olympics.”

It used to give her butterflies to say it. She can remember saying it into Gillian’s ear, draped across her in bed, or tucked under Gillian’s arm at a friend’s wedding-- _I can’t wait to marry you_. This time all she feels is a pit of dread that grows heavier when understanding flashes across Gillian’s face, but recognition doesn’t. She understands. But she doesn’t feel it.

Meghan rubs her forehead.

“It’s okay,” she says, “I’m sorry, I would have told you right away but they told me to wait to see if you remembered first and not to shock you into--because you were already in this totally new place--if I could have I would have told you by now.”

Gillian is still chewing her lips. She’s not making eye contact anymore, which is almost a relief for Meghan, who isn’t sure what else to say. She wants to hug Gillian but she knows that would be out of line here, while Gillian’s still trying to understand them, together.

“A lot of things make sense now,” is all that Gillian says. Meghan can tell she’s close to tears, and that’s all it takes for her to get there, too. Watching Gillian struggle and not being able to do more than watch is torture beyond what Meghan could have imagined. 

“Please don’t feel like you need to do anything,” Meghan pleads, “or say anything to me, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. And really, seriously, I’m sorry, I haven’t been a good friend to you, or a good roommate or anything else. I’m sorry I made things worse.”

Gillian is definitely crying, ducking her chin to her chest so Meghan won’t see, and Meghan can’t resist reaching out to touch her forearm, but she yanks her hand back immediately, afraid of Gillian’s reaction. Gillian doesn’t really react at all, just lifts her head and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, taking a shuddery breath.

“Fuck,” she says, “God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Meghan, I can’t even imagine, I mean literally can’t imagine--”

“I know,” Meghan says, because she doesn’t want to hear that Gillian can’t imagine loving her, even if it’s true, “it’s okay, you didn’t know. I’m doing okay. Better now. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t see that girl from the bar or anything.”

Gillian laughs and shakes her head, still swiping at her eyes.

“God, no,” she says, “I don’t _want_ to see her. I don’t want...I want to remember.”

-

It’s true. Gillian doesn’t realize it until it’s out of her mouth, but it’s _true_. It’s the first time since she woke up that she feels that way, a deep, aching need to remember her life, to remember Meghan, to remember loving someone so much that she risked everything to build a new life in a brand new city. She wouldn’t have thought that love like that was something down the line for her. It seems like a miracle that she’s here.

When she looks up again, Meghan is crying too, and Gillian has a distinct visceral reaction, like a tug pulling her to Meghan to hold her, which she doesn’t do. She’s too startled by the feeling. It feels wrong that Meghan is crying and Gillian’s not wrapped around her. It’s not a memory, not really, not yet, but it’s something.

“I want you to remember too,” Meghan says.

Gillian can’t help herself.

“Can I hug you?” she asks, and Meghan breaks down a little, but she’s nodding, and Gillian pulls her in. The relief is immediate. Meghan sinks against her, the island holding them both up, and Gillian wraps both arms around Meghan’s torso while she shakes, her arms drawn to her chest.

“I don’t know what to do,” Gillian admits. Meghan’s getting the front of her shirt wet, but she doesn’t care. “I don’t know what the best way is for me to not make you feel--like this.”

Meghan doesn’t answer right away. She’s trying to calm her breathing down, Gillian can tell. 

“Do you want me to move?” Gillian asks, but it sounds absurd, especially with Meghan still in her arms. 

“No,” Meghan says, a little desperately, and she lifts her head, taking a step back.

“If,” Meghan wipes her eyes and takes a breath, “that’s what you want to do, then definitely do it, but if you’re asking what I want, no, I don’t--I don’t want to lose you all the way.”

Hearing that sends a pang through Gillian, but she’s not sure what it is. She can’t really make sense of anything she’s feeling now that she’s not touching Meghan at all, all she knows is that she’s exhausted, like she’s just run a triathlon. She doesn’t have the energy to filter herself, or to do anything other than be honest.

“I don’t want to move,” she says, “I want to stop hurting you.”

Meghan shakes her head and moves to the sink, fumbling for a paper towel to dab at her eyes. Her mascara is ruined, and Gillian remembers again how Meghan looked the night they had felt the most normal, no makeup, no shoes, just existing in their shared space. _Theirs_. Gillian can see with sudden and startling clarity how she came to fall in love with that.

She has so many questions and she doesn’t want to ask any of them. Instead, she says the next first thing that comes to mind, shoving her hands into her jean pockets.

“I’m starving. Do you wanna order pizza?”

-

Meghan hasn’t had real pizza in ages, but she feels appropriately hollow and terrible enough to eat it. Gillian orders veggie pizza at least, and they share it on the couch, not even bothering with plates. It feels good. Meghan is surprised. She’s surprised by how comforting it is. The grease, the shitty documentary, Gillian sitting on the wrong side of the couch. It feels like Gillian, but it doesn’t feel like their life together, before, and something about that is comforting. 

Maybe she can do this. It’s not ideal. Marrying Gillian in a few months was ideal. This, though, is easier to stomach than anything with Gillian has been up until now, and Meghan wonders if it’s just because Gillian knows now.

That lasts for half the documentary. When the pizza is done and Gillian goes to put the box away, she sits back down and Meghan is aware that they’re not close enough to each other. She keeps seeing in her minds eye the way that Gillian would stretch her arms over her head and sprawl out onto Meghan’s lap. Tonight Gillian just watches the TV until she catches Meghan staring at her.

“This sucks, right?” Gillian asks. “The show, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Meghan says, but she’s not really thinking about it. She’s trying to decide whether she wants to touch Gillian or wants Gillian to want to touch her. It doesn’t really matter, because she’s not going to push it by moving for either. Just because Gillian wants to remember doesn’t mean Gillian wants her. 

“Hey,” Gillian says, “did I call you anything else? I feel like I called you something other than Meghan. Like, Kacey calls you Megs. Your teammates call you Duggs.”

Meghan licks her lips. She has a mental list immediately, but she doesn’t want to share it all; it feels like she’s betraying Gillian, her Gillian, telling her secrets.

“Meg,” she says, “you called me Meg sometimes. Sometimes Megs, too.”

“And I’m sure you called me Gill,” Gillian says, “right? Nobody calls me Gillian. I mean, you can if you want, I just meant--”

“I called you Gill,” Meghan says, “pretty much only Gill.”

Gillian nods. Neither of them are watching the documentary. This is about the time in the night where Meghan would have swung herself into Gillian’s lap and kissed her, but she doesn’t even look at Gillian, for long enough that she’s surprised when she looks up and Gillian is looking at _her_. 

“Thank you for letting me stay,” Gillian says. Her voice is soft and Meghan can tell how close it is to breaking. She shrugs, standing up and starting to clean up their plates and the pizza box to keep herself from following Gillian’s lead and getting too emotional.

“This is your home too,” she says, and she doesn’t wait in the living room to see if it hit Gillian as hard as it hit her.

-

Gillian cries herself to sleep. It feels like a significant part of her has been scraped raw, and she hates it. She remembers hearing Meghan crying, so she tries to be quiet, burying her face in her pillow, but being quiet just makes the ache in her chest worse. 

She’s confused. She’s scared. She’s excited. She’s _angry_. God, she’s angry, angry at Meghan, at Kacey, at her family, at everyone who didn’t tell her. There’s so much angry energy pent up that she has to roll over twice to get comfortable, even with the tears still dampening her pillowcase. She doesn’t remember falling for Meghan, but she can see it happening now. Something about knowing the circumstances has set it into motion faster than Gillian expected. She knew she had a crush, at least a little bit, a fleeting moment, but it’s snowballing. Meghan smiles with her teeth; Gillian has probably kissed them. Meghan pushes her hair out of her face; Gillian has probably helped her braid it.

And she remembers none of it. 

It’s not fair. Not to her and not to Meghan, whose every move is explained by living under the same roof as a stranger she was ready to marry. Gillian drifts off like that with her light on, upset and still frustrated, and when she wakes up again properly an hour later she feels worse. She’s tense, and when she remembers why she almost cries again. Somehow the thing she gets stuck on, without her brain fully awake, is wondering whether Meghan has met her nephews. 

She ends up padding to the living room quietly, pacing the bookshelves. There’s a photo album on the bottom shelf that has a picture of Meghan with her mom on the front. Gillian had always assumed it was Meghan’s, and probably something it would be weird for her to look through, but she’s still angry and hit with a sudden wave of curiosity that makes her pull the album from the shelf. She wants to see Meghan’s life, before her. She wants to know as much as she can about the person she proposed to. Or the person who proposed to her. 

Gillian can’t tell how old Meghan is in the beginning of the album. It’s two pages before she sees Meghan in a Wisconsin sweater after a game with her family, and that narrows it down a bit, but she realizes that Meghan has always looked closer to thirty than twenty even when she was barely legal to drink. She has dimples, and Gillian takes the opportunity to study them, without Meghan in front of her to notice her staring. She looks more like her mom than her dad. Gillian tries and fails to remember the names of Meghan’s siblings. 

There’s a particular picture that makes her pause because it makes her feel like her stomach has just dropped out the bottom of her. Meghan is holding a baby in her lap, with both of the baby’s hands gripping Meghan’s index fingers. Meghan’s smile is barely visible because her head is tilted down, but Gillian feels so strongly so suddenly that she’s not sure if she’s going to cry again or be sick. The Meghan in that picture is more tender and gentle than Gillian would have thought possible given the sides of Meghan Duggan she knows. 

“Gill,” Meghan says, and Gillian jumps, guiltily clapping the album closed. Meghan is standing in the threshold of the living room in sweatpants and a Team USA t-shirt that doesn’t fit her shoulders. She’s been crying; Gillian can tell from the redness around her eyes and wonder if she looks as wrecked as she feels.

“Sorry,” Gillian says, getting up from the floor, “I didn’t mean to pry.” That’s a lie, so she continues, holding the album out to Meghan, who hasn’t moved. 

“I wanted to remember something,” she says. Meghan takes a breath so deep that Gillian can see it in her shoulders. 

“Did you?” she asks, and Gillian shakes her head. 

Meghan comes to her and takes the album. She holds it in both hands, staring down at it, and then she puts it down on the coffee table. 

“Give me a second,” she says, and the thinness of her voice makes Gillian want to wrap herself around Meghan for hours. She waits uncomfortably, standing where Meghan left her, while Meghan disappears back toward her room. When she reappears she has another photo album in her hands, a little bit thinner and black. Gillian has a flash of memory when she sees it: it had been a gift once, with a red ribbon tied around it. She’s not sure who gave it or who got it, but remembering that is something, at least. 

Meghan sits down on the couch and looks up at Gillian, who joins her, trying to gauge how close to sit and failing miserably, ending up close enough that their arms brush. 

“My mom got this for us,” Meghan says, “last Christmas.” Gillian tries to conceptualize being with someone long enough to get a gift as a unit and fails. Their initials are embossed on the cover. 

“She loves you,” Meghan offers. Gillian isn’t sure what to say. She flips the album open instead of trying to come up with something. 

The first picture takes her breath away. It’s a simple enough picture of Meghan’s family together, dressed for the cold, inside someone’s living room that Gillian doesn’t recognize. Meghan’s arm is around her shoulders, and there’s the ring on her finger, clear as day. It’s not the ring that makes Gillian breathless. It’s the look on her face, a smile she’s only seen in a handful of pictures of her. The first word that comes to mind is ‘dopey’. The second is ‘content.’

She can’t remember ever being that happy. The next picture, it’s her arm around Meghan’s shoulders, and Meghan is looking at her and not the camera. She’s beaming at Gillian, whose eyes are on the camera, and Gillian gets chills trying to process that she made anyone that happy. 

“Shit,” she murmurs, “we were really in love.”

She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Meghan inhales, and Gillian mentally kicks herself—it’s not as if she hasn’t already hurt Meghan enough. 

“Yeah,” Meghan agrees, quietly. Gillian wants to make her smile like she’s smiling in that picture. She wonders if that’s still possible, and when Meghan’s thumb brushes over their image before she flips the page, Gillian comes to her final realization of the night, one that results in her staring openly at Meghan and not at the album. 

Meghan still loves her. 

“I’m sorry,” Gillian says. “Meghan, seriously, I’m sorry for all of this. I can’t imagine.”

“It’s not your fault,” Meghan says, but she doesn’t make eye contact. “The accident wasn’t your fault. I know you didn’t—wouldn’t have wanted this either.”

“I don’t,” Gillian replies vehemently, “I don’t want this. I want to remember, I want—“ she looks back down at the album, at a third picture of her and Meghan attached at the hip.

“I want to be her,” Gillian says. 

Meghan clears her throat. She reaches up to swipe at one eye and Gillian realizes that she’s made Meghan cry again. It makes her panic, which is another thing she’s not used to. She’s about to apologize again before Meghan slides the album over into her lap.

“You should keep this,” Meghan says, “look through it, maybe it’ll help.”

-

Gillian is gone when Meghan wakes up and wanders into the kitchen. Her bedroom door is open, the bathroom is empty, and Meghan isn’t sure why it feels so much like a one-night stand. Gillian is coming back, and she knows it. Thinks she knows it. Meghan spends five minutes resisting the urge to check if Gillian’s things are still there before she gives up, makes a bowl of oatmeal, and calls Kacey.

“Megs,” Kacey says, when she finally answers on the last ring, “it’s seven in the morning on a Sunday. Not all of us are the kind of adults that function before ten.”

Meghan doesn’t take the bait. She doesn’t answer at all, because her throat is suddenly too tight to, and her oatmeal doesn’t look terribly appetizing.

“Megs?”

The only thing that prompts Meghan to actually speak is the edge of panic in Kacey’s voice.

“Gill knows,” Meghan says. She can hear Kacey exhale on the other line and struggle out of bed. Meghan is hit with a wave of affection so strong that she has to rest her forehead in her free hand.

“Alright,” Kacey says, “I mean, that’s good, right? I guess it depends on how--”

“She asked me,” Meghan says, “she asked me, basically. So I told her, but maybe, I don’t know. Maybe I should have just told her we were dating.”

Kacey is quiet for a second. Meghan lifts her head and stares at her oatmeal again, begging it to become something she wants to eat.

“You’re really bad at lying,” Kacey says. Meghan gets defensive immediately, but Kacey continues before she can say anything. “If you’d told her that,” Kacey says, “she would have found out eventually that wasn’t the truth either, and then how was she going to trust you? Now at least it’s just the one little lie. Uh, big lie. Just...it’s just one. So she’ll recover.”

Meghan sighs. If Gillian were going to recover she would have stuck around, waited to say good morning, wanted to _talk_ about things. Meghan has a feeling that things have swung the other way, that GIllian doesn’t feel comfortable seeing or speaking to her.

“Besides,” Kacey says, “you would never have lied to her in the first place. Where are you?”

“Home,” Meghan says, “I don’t know where she is.”

“Oh,” Kacey says, “okay, well, listen. It’s gonna be okay, alright? I’m sure she’ll pop back up, you guys will talk some more, and it’ll be way less weird than you think. Maybe she remembered some stuff overnight.”

“This was supposed to make it easier,” Meghan replies.

“It will,” Kacey insists, “it just happened, give it some time.”

Meghan is about to complain again when she hears Gillian’s key in the lock and almost drops her phone in her lukewarm, untouched oatmeal. The rush of adrenaline makes her shaky when she speaks again.

“Go back to sleep,” she says, “thanks, Kacey, I’ll...I’ll call you later.”

“Oh,” Kacey says, realizing the situation, “gotcha. Okay, bye.”

“Bye,” Meghan says, as Gillian enters. She waits a full three seconds before she looks over her shoulder. Gillian is holding a paper bag in one arm, and eye contact makes her look shy in a way Meghan hasn’t seen her for years.

“Hey,” Gillian says, “um, I got bagels. I don’t...actually know if you like them, or if I liked this place or ever went there, but it had good reviews, so.”

It’s not new, but Meghan doesn’t say so. She’s struck by a sudden wave of nostalgia instead. 

“Sleep okay?” she asks, and Gillian shyly avoids her gaze. 

“Sure,” Gillian says, “I slept alright, just some weird dreams, but I don’t remember them. I just remember waking up disoriented, but--”

She shrugs. She fishes out a sesame seed bagel without thinking about it and then stares blankly around at the drawers.

“Bread knife is in the second drawer next to the sink on the right,” Meghan murmurs. She watches Gillian cut the bagel up, spread some cream cheese on it, and then hesitate again.

“I don’t eat sesame seed bagels,” Gillian says, quietly.

“No,” Meghan says. “Asiago.”

Gillian is quiet for a few more seconds. 

“This is yours,” she says, after the wait, and Meghan’s heart leaps into her throat. Gillian hands the bagel over, and Meghan takes it. She can’t tell how Gillian feels, and it’s terrifying to her. She wonders if she’s forgotten, too, and the thought makes her panic before she realizes that isn’t it at all. The truth is that Gillian as she was before the accident had stopped doing this--hiding her feelings, at least from Meghan--and now they’re back at square one. Meghan feels a surge of grief and love for Gillian, before the accident, the one who loved her so completely and earnestly she never hid.

She feels ridiculous. It’s too early in the morning to feel like this. Gillian fishes an asiago bagel out of the bag and cuts it open. 

“I’m remembering stuff,” she says, and Meghan leans harder against the counter, feeling her legs start to go a bit weak. 

“I can’t tell if you feel good about that or not,” Meghan says honestly.

“Good,” Gillian says, “I feel good about it, I just--I’m not remembering things chronologically. And it’s--it makes me want to--”

She cuts herself off, then runs a hand through her hair, a gesture that Meghan recognizes as a nervous habit. 

“It makes me want to take you on a date,” she says.

Meghan is grinning before she realizes it. She only becomes aware of it when Gillian makes eye contact with her and turns bright pink, and then she’s blushing, too.

“I wouldn’t object to that,” she says, trying to play it cool. She can’t remember the last time she tried to play it cool in front of Gillian.

“I want to take you out,” Gillian says, “but I want--I want you to go out with _me_. Not...who I was.”

Meghan’s smile falters. She can tell that Gillian has noticed, because she looks crestfallen, and while she’s trying to process how she feels, Meghan fails to comfort Gillian at all. She feels uncomfortably like she’s being unfaithful agreeing to go out with this Gillian, and it’s completely absurd. Gillian is Gillian, regardless of what she remembers. And yet.

“Yeah,” Gillian says, “no, I know. It’s okay.”

“Gill,” Meghan says, “hold on, I didn’t say anything.”

“I remember what that face means,” Gillian says, and Meghan feels a spike of frustration.

“Stop,” she says, and _that_ feels familiar. This moment, Gillian withdrawing without seeing the whole picture, feels familiar.

“I want to,” Meghan says, and Gillian chews her lips.

“I’m serious,” Meghan says, “I want to. I’m just trying to get my bearings. Like you are.”

“Alright,” Gillian says, and she’s sheepish now. Meghan knows even if she can’t tell, because that’s how Gillian always gets when she’s jumped to conclusions to sulk instead of hearing her. The instinct to reach out and pull Gillian to her is so strong that Meghan takes her bagel and goes to the dining room table, and Gillian doesn’t follow right away. When Meghan glances over her shoulder, Gillian’s getting water, and the way she’s smiling to herself makes Meghan’s heart skip a beat.

 

-

Things go back to normal a little bit after that, or as normal as things can be. Gillian ends up in the stands at the rink, watching Meghan and Kacey and the rest of the group practice. Watching Meghan skate does a number of things to Gillian that take her the entire practice to work through. She traps her freezing hands between her knees. Meghan and Decker come towards Kacey, simulating a two-on-one, and Kacey poke-checks the puck right off of Decker’s stick.

Gillian has been on the ice with Meghan before. Like this. She’s been on the ice with Meghan like this, casually, for fun, wearing practice jerseys. She’s confused until she realizes it’s not one memory, but multiple memories of being out here, in this rink and others, with Meghan. Just messing with her. Helping her. Giving her tips, challenging her to be better, like her teammates are doing now. 

“Sup, Apps,” Decker says, skating past and flipping a puck at the boards, “any idea when you’ll be cleared to come out here with us?”

“I haven’t asked,” Gillian admits. Somehow hockey had been the furthest thing from her mind. It’s not anymore. She wants to skate again, and, weirdly, she wants to skate with _them_.

“Well,” Decker says, “you should. Watching you try to play D with Kacey is a pastime I dearly miss.”

“Oh, God,” Gillian laughs, “that sounds awful.”

“For you,” Decker laughs, and skates off, passing the puck from her backhand to her forehand. Gillian shakes her head, and catches a glimpse of Meghan watching her, grinning so widely it’s clear even through her full fishbowl. She doesn’t drop the smile right away when they make eye contact, but it softens, shrinks into something else that makes Gillian feel warm and stupid when she smiles back.

Was this her life? Was it like this every time? If it’s possible that her heart got like that every time Meghan smiled at her, really smiled at her, Gillian isn’t sure how she survived it. She feels like she did the first time she had a crush. She wonders if it was like that immediately or if she fell into it, and she knows the answer even though she doesn’t remember it.

It grew. It had to have. She wants to remember the moment she knew she had tumbled into something deep. She wants to remember their first kiss, their first date. For now she watches Meghan skate and admires her long strides, the set of her shoulders, how her voice fills the rink and echoes off the ice and boards.

-

One day Meghan comes home and Gillian isn’t there. It hasn’t happened like that in a while, but somehow she can tell it’s different. She wanders into the kitchen and finds a postcard sticking up out of the napkin holder on the island.

‘I’ll be back at 8,’ it says. ‘I’d like to take you to dinner,’ in Gillian’s thin, loopy script.

Meghan’s heart leaps in her chest. It’s funny how that still happens, even after years of being with Gillian. Gillian isn’t a mystery anymore, but she’s still full of surprises, and Meghan has always loved that. Dinner with Gillian. A late dinner, no less, which is something they hadn’t done in ages; it was so much easier to cook and cuddle up in their sweats and fall asleep by nine. Meghan already feels warm and pampered and nothing has happened yet.

She calls Kacey.

“Hey,” Kacey says, in a way that seems a little strained, in hindsight.

“Gill’s taking me on a date,” Meghan says.

“I know,” Kacey says.

“I have no idea what to wear,” Meghan says.

Kacey moves around on the other end of the line, dropping her voice.

“Once I pick her outfit for her,” Kacey says, “I can pick yours.”

Meghan has to sit down. She’s not sure if she wants to laugh or not, but she’s giddy, imagining Gillian at Kacey’s with a cluster of sweaters and jackets and pants and _begging_ Kacey to pick an outfit that works, as if Kacey doesn’t wear the same v-neck and the same button down and the same workout shirt in different colors every day of her life.

“Oh,” Meghan says, and then she does laugh, but it comes out as more of a giggle than anything else, which would be embarrassing if she hadn’t called Kacey crying through giddy laughter after Gillian proposed.

“I’m gonna hang up now,” Kacey says, “send me pictures if you want.”

Meghan does not. She sends the pictures to Erika, who helps her pick out a black v-neck, and tells her to grab a blazer or a button-down depending on what Gillian’s answer is when Meghan asks where they’re going.

“It’s really simple,” Meghan says, because she’s not sure about it.

“It’s low-cut, your boobs look great, and Gillian is a simple woman,” Erika replies, and Meghan can’t argue with that. It makes her feel dangerous, though, dressing in a way that’s meant to provoke Gillian into touching her, even if that’s what she wants. What she wants is to go back to a time she didn’t have to stop herself from wrapping herself around Gillian and kissing her senseless.

Gillian shows up at 7:58, and Meghan wonders if she’s just remembered that Meghan likes to be early or if she’s just nervous enough to be early on her own. She’s in a navy sweater that hugs her shoulders and makes her eyes look particularly gray and soft, and Meghan wants to hug her, wants to run her hands through Gillian’s hair.

“Hi,” Gillian says shyly, in their doorway, as if she doesn’t also live there.

“Where are we off to?” Meghan asks, and she watches Gillian’s eyes dip to her v-neck before she answers.

“Nowhere fancy,” she says, so Meghan slips into a button-down, one that used to be Gillian’s and is a little too loose but always makes her feel good about herself and about them. 

Gillian takes her closer to BC, to a restaurant that somehow doesn’t feel like it’s in a college town. It’s not one they’ve been to before, and Meghan wonders if Gillian knows. Neither of them says anything for a few minutes while they pore over the menus, and when Gillian does speak, her voice is very soft, the way it gets when she’s not sure about herself.

“I know a dinner date is kind of basic,” Gillian says.

“I like basic,” Meghan says, “I like going out with you, we weren’t doing much of it before, we were both so busy.”

Gillian doesn’t like hearing that. She doesn’t like thinking about it, thinking about them both being too busy to do things like this. She wonders, briefly, if things weren’t that great when the accident happened, but she doesn’t want to ask. Meghan was so devastated by it that she doubts that was the case. She doesn’t know what to say to that, either way, so she doesn’t say anything. 

They don’t talk about themselves as a unit for the rest of dinner. Gillian doesn’t want to press Meghan, and she can’t tell if Meghan wants to pretend this is brand new to both of them or if she wants something else. The problem is that there’s no guidebook for the ‘something else’ that comes with their situation, and everything Gillian does feels just a little bit off, just a little bit wrong. 

“You should ask me something,” Meghan says, over dessert. 

“Like what?” Gillian asks, and Meghan shrugs.

“Whatever you want to know,” Meghan says, “whatever you think will help you piece things together.”

So they’re not pretending they’ve never met. Gillian takes a deep breath, poking mindlessly at her cheesecake. It’s weird to be retired. It’s even weirder to be retired and not want to scarf that entire cheesecake slice down in seconds. She had always imagined her retirement as a time to finally eat all the shit she _couldn’t_ while playing for the national team, but it’s like her body doesn’t want it. 

“What was our first date like?” Gillian asks, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind. Well, the second thing. The first question she always wants to ask is about the proposal, but she knows she’ll never ask about that. Meghan takes a sip of her wine, and Gillian realizes that she’s not sure how many glasses each of them has had. Two? Probably two. She feels good, but not too good. Not too loose. She’s not afraid of what’s going to happen when she opens her mouth yet.

“Officially,” Meghan says, “the first time we went out on an actual date was a concert, actually. We’d been to dinner a few times before but it was with groups of people, not just the two of us. I guess you were looking for an excuse to be here--in Boston I mean--so...we went to a concert together.”

Gillian isn’t expecting more than that. She tries to remember, but there’s nothing, really, just that she knows without having to ask that they’ve gone to many a concert together. Meghan must have a similar taste in music, or else Gillian’s taste in music has changed, just like her taste in food. 

“I started singing along,” Meghan says, “halfway through, they did my favorite song and I’d had a beer or two. And you looked at me and I...guess I could tell that you wanted me. And when you sang along with me I wanted you too.”

Gillian wants Meghan then. She’s wanted Meghan for a while, but then, in that second, it’s like she can feel exactly what Meghan’s describing, that ache in her chest she felt when Meghan made eye contact with her at the rink. She can understand, without having to really consider it, why she would have proposed. The way that she feels right now--she’d do anything to feel like that for the rest of her life.

And she’d do anything for Meghan to feel how she feels.

The strangest part is when they get back home. Gillian has no idea what to do. If they lived in separate places she would kiss Meghan goodnight and leave, but she can’t. She’s not even sure she should kiss Meghan at all, since they’re going to have to see each other for the rest of the night.

Gillian can’t think straight. She’s doubted herself so many times in a row that she knows she’s going to be paralyzed into doing nothing, and Meghan is going to think she doesn’t want to try this again, and they’ll have to have yet another heartbreakingly earnest conversation about how much they care about each other. 

She really believes that until Meghan turns to her in the foyer, shuffles closer, and places her hand on Gillian’s chest, over her sweater. Gillian is frozen, blinking down at Meghan, and Meghan is the one to tip her chin up and press their lips together. It’s chaste, and it lasts only a second, but Gillian feels like she can finally breathe.

She has no idea what they’re doing, but as long as Meghan wants her, she doesn’t care about the rules.

“Thank you for tonight,” Meghan says. She hasn’t taken her hand back, and she’s still looking up at Gillian through her eyelashes, so close that Gillian could kiss her again without moving much at all.

“Not as good as a concert,” Gillian jokes weakly, “but still good, I hope.”

“It was perfect,” Meghan says breathily, and Gillian’s stomach drops right out of her. There’s a part of her brain, a part that remembers this, screaming at her to take Meghan to bed, to lay her out on her back and taste every inch of her skin. It happens so fast that Gillian has whiplash. Not that she hasn’t considered sleeping with Meghan, but the opportunity, the idea, the concept being so vivid is dizzying for her. She can’t tell if she’s imagining or remembering. Her mouth is dry when she swallows.

“Now what?” she asks. That same part of her brain, the animal part, is begging Meghan to take her to bed, to press her into the mattress. Most of her just wants to know where she stands. Meghan tucks Gillian’s hair behind her ear, letting her fingers linger on Gillian’s cheek, and Gillian holds her breath.

“We should sleep,” Meghan says, “it’s late.”

Gillian tries not to be too disappointed.

“Yeah,” she agrees. Meghan takes her hand back, and Gillian is almost ready to turn away and go to her room when Meghan speaks again.

“You can stay with me,” Meghan blurts, “if you want.”

“Do you want me to?” Gillian asks, as if it isn’t the stupidest question she’s ever asked in her life. Obviously Meghan wants her to, or she wouldn’t have asked. Gillian is just still trying to wrap her mind around it, around the idea of sharing a bed with Meghan. Did they fall asleep spooning? Would that be too much?

“I don’t want to wake up alone again,” Meghan admits quietly, and Gillian is finally shaken out of her internal monologue by the blush across Meghan’s cheeks, the way she can’t make eye contact. Instinctively Gillian moves to comfort her, reaching for Meghan’s hand and squeezing it before she realizes what she’s doing.

“Then I’ll stay with you,” Gillian says, and again it’s too easy for her to imagine saying that and meaning ‘forever.’

-

Meghan wakes up with Gillian wrapped halfway around her. Gillian’s arm is around her stomach, and Meghan can feel, after a second, Gillian’s inhale and exhale against her upper back. Meghan shivers immediately, and Gillian tightens her grip, murmuring in her sleep. It takes another few seconds for Meghan to remember everything else.

Meghan wants to roll over. She wants to stretch out along the length of Gillian’s warm, sleepy body, and kiss her awake. She wants to coax Gillian into more than this, wants Gillian’s hands on her hips and her waist. The thought occurs to her before she can stop it, and it makes her feel guilty. She’s not even sure she could roll over and kiss Gillian without overwhelming her or taking things further than Gillian is ready to go. The fact that they slept in the same bed is already going to be huge.

But Meghan’s body doesn’t really care.

Her breathing must change, because Gillian shifts behind her. 

“Morning,” Gillian murmurs eventually, rumbling it so close to Meghan’s shoulder that she can feel it.

“Morning,” Meghan replies. Gillian’s hand is on her stomach, so Meghan feels bad moving. Half of her is panicking, wanting to get up and out as fast as possible, but the other half just wants her to roll over. She does neither. She compromises by wriggling back against Gillian so that her back is pressed as closely to Gillian’s front as possible.

“Megs,” Gillian murmurs, and Meghan shudders, reaching down to clutch at Gillian’s arm across her side. Gillian kisses Meghan’s shoulder over her t-shirt absently, stroking her hand along Meghan’s stomach, and Meghan tries to keep her breathing regular, like she’s not desperate for more. 

Gillian has nothing more to say. Meghan knows it, but when she’s right it gives her a little thrill to be able to predict Gillian still, _this_ Gillian. She rolls over, finally, and Gillian kisses her, wrapping both arms around her waist. Meghan reaches up to cup Gillian’s face in her hands, and the kiss is too good, even with morning breath, for her to stay upset for long. Gillian doesn’t remember. Right now that’s okay, because Gillian is kissing her like she wants her, and that’s all Meghan wants.

Meghan ends up with her arm around Gillian’s shoulders, and Gillian’s hands fall to her hips. When they do, Meghan can’t stop herself from making an appreciative sound against Gillian’s lips. It’s been ages since she was able to do this, and a while since she was able to feel how much she misses it. With Gillian’s hands finally on her again, she’s aware of _exactly_ how much she misses it. Meghan wants all of their clothes off. She’s not thinking when her hand slides under Gillian’s shirt, over her stomach, but she remembers everything when Gillian inhales sharply and breaks the kiss.

“Fuck,” Meghan mumbles, taking her hand back, “sorry, habit--”

“No,” Gillian says, “it’s okay, I--”

“I’m gonna shower,” Meghan says, rolling out of the bed. It’s half so that she doesn’t have to look at Gillian while she’s blushing this hard. It’s embarrassing how badly she wants Gillian, who can’t possibly be as into it as Meghan is with years of memories behind it. Meghan knows exactly what Gillian’s capable of. Was capable of.

“Oh,” Gillian says, “okay.”

-

Gillian stays in bed for two minutes after Meghan disappears into the bathroom. She replays it over and over in her head trying to decide if she’s done anything wrong, and she can’t come up with anything. It had felt like things were mutual, things were equal, like Meghan wanted her in that moment. The kiss had been heated. It had been different than the way Meghan had kissed her before.

She’s probably reading into it. Sharing a bed is one thing, sex is entirely another. Gillian can’t shake the feeling that she did something wrong even though Meghan was the one initiating. It occurs to her that Meghan has been celibate since the accident after living with her for years, and she feels bad all over again. Her mind wanders, and she ends up guiltily imagining Meghan in the shower, the steam obscuring her a little bit.

It drags her right into a memory.

It must be the sound. GIllian can suddenly smell it as if she’s in the bathroom, something like lavender. She can see the shape of Meghan’s shoulders under the spray and remembers the freckles and beauty marks she had traced with her fingertips. With her tongue. Meghan’s forehead pressed to the tile wall, her hips pressing back, the sound of Gillian’s name echoing off all the porcelain in the room.

“Fuck,” Gillian hisses, and drags herself out of bed, padding back to her room while she tries to erase the image. She can’t, of course. It’s too vivid, and the truth is she doesn’t want to ignore it. She wants to live in that moment for a while longer. She wants to know more. She sinks back onto her own bed and wills herself to remember again. It’s the same few seconds as before, one of her hands on Meghan’s hip and the other tracing her shoulder. She can remember the spray when she dipped her head to kiss Meghan’s neck. She can’t remember anything else. 

She _can_ remember Meghan’s cool hand against her stomach.

Gillian makes herself busy. She starts breakfast, tying her hair back as best she can and trying to focus on the omelettes she’s making. She’s not sure why she knows what to put into Meghan’s, because she doesn’t have an explicit memory, but she knows what feels right. She hopes she’s not wrong. 

When Meghan joins her in the kitchen, her wet hair is braided and she has trouble meeting Gillian’s gaze. Gillian doesn’t blame her. For a moment she wonders if Meghan remembered the same thing in the shower, but she doubts that.

“Hope this is right,” Gillian says, sliding the omelette Meghan’s way, “egg whites and mushrooms and swiss with spinach.”

“It is,” Meghan says quietly. She takes the plate, and Gillian joins her at the table, wondering for the first time in a while whether she should. She does, though, and they eat in silence for a while. Gillian catches a whiff of Meghan’s shampoo or body wash, and she shifts in her chair. It brings the shower memory back again.

“Sorry about earlier,” Meghan says. Gillian jerks her head up, terrified that Meghan can tell that she’s thinking about it.

“I don’t want to rush you,” Meghan continues. Her eyes are still on her breakfast, but the rush of relief that Gillian feels doesn’t wane when Meghan looks up and makes eye contact, briefly. Gillian tries to decide how to answer so that she doesn’t sound desperate. She takes a drink of water and a deep breath before she even tries.

“I don’t feel rushed,” she says. “Didn’t feel rushed.”

Meghan glances up again. Gillian tries to stay cool, but she can feel how hot her face is.

“Oh,” Meghan says, “okay.”

And that’s that.

-

Meghan waits a bit. Neither of them have anything to do all day, and that’s where it gets iffy. On a day like this, normally, the two of them would have barely gotten out of bed. They would have eaten breakfast, like they are now, and then gotten back in bed and--

Well, those are some of Meghan’s favorite memories. Days they spent together under and over the covers, touching and tasting and exploring each other for hours with nothing to rush them, taking breaks to eat and drink and maybe do a crossword but never bothering much with clothes because there was always the temptation to go again and nothing to stop them from doing it.

And Meghan wants that. She tries to tell that part of her brain that it’s not an option, but Gillian’s sitting there across from her, drinking her coffee like she always does, reading National Geographic like she always does, and Meghan’s body just doesn’t _get it_. Meghan’s body wants to press Gillian back into the chair and sit in Gillian’s lap and kiss her until the coffee taste is gone. 

Meghan squirms in her own chair and wishes she hadn’t taken a shower. It was a good excuse, but she doesn’t have one anymore, and she’s trying to come up with reasons to leave the apartment when Gillian puts her coffee down and closes the magazine.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and Meghan bites her lips to contain the almost immediate urge to pretend that she is.

She can tell that Gillian can tell she’s not fine. Gillian, though, almost definitely doesn’t remember what that means, in this context, so Meghan is going to have to be direct about it if she wants something. She’s not sure if she wants to try again. She’s not sure if the right thing to do is to take Gillian to bed, even if that’s what Gillian seemed to be telling her she wanted. 

“Meg,” Gillian says, and it’s the first time Meghan’s heard her say it since the accident. Somehow that’s what seals the deal for her. She stands up from the table and takes a step back, holding out her hand.

“C’mere,” she says, and Gillian dutifully does, almost knocking her chair over on her way to her feet. She’s blushing by the time she gets to Meghan, who links their fingers together and leans up to entice Gillian into the kiss. It works like it always had before. She stops just short of kissing Gillian and Gillian chases her down, reaching with one shaking hand to cup the back of Meghan’s head. Meghan grips Gillian’s bicep with her free hand and presses closer. It’s not like any of the times they’ve kissed before. If anything, it’s a more deliberate version of the way they had kissed when they woke up together, something heated and heavy and meaningful in a new way.

Well, it’s only partially new to Meghan. It’s hard for her not to feel like this is the first time, and she has a feeling that the best thing to do is to treat it like it’s new, anyway. She’s never done this with this Gillian. And the Gillian whose hand is sliding down the back of her neck to rest between her shoulderblades has no recollection of the hundreds of times these bodies have been naked together. That’s the easiest adjustment, somehow, that Meghan has made throughout this entire process.

Gillian breaks the kiss and stares at Meghan’s mouth in silent surprise and awe until Meghan takes a step back and tugs at Gillian’s hand. It’s been a while since Meghan can remember Gillian looking at her like that--like she’s in constant disbelief that she gets to do this with _Meghan_ \--but she remembers it, and seeing the expression again makes her even more desperate to get Gillian horizontal. She turns on her heel to lead Gillian to their bedroom, and Gillian follows, with Meghan still holding her hand.

She turns the light on. She’s sort of expecting Gillian to turn it off, because she has before, but Gillian doesn’t even seem to register it. She leans in again, and Meghan lets her initiate the kiss, lets Gillian wrap her arms around her waist, lets the kiss go on for a full minute before she even moves. When she does, she slides her hands down to Gillian’s hips, then under Gillian’s shirt again. She leaves her hands there, fingertips resting against Gillian’s stomach just above the hem of her jeans, and Gillian sucks in a breath. When Meghan pulls up on Gillian’s shirt, Gillian tugs it over her head and drops it before she reaches for Meghan’s, with an urgency that reminds Meghan of times they had been apart for weeks. 

-

Meghan lets Gillian look, and Gillian drinks it in. She touches Meghan’s shoulders, her collarbones, then her ribs. Meghan kisses Gillian’s cheek and jaw, and Gillian finally works up the nerve to touch Meghan over her bra. Meghan exhales somewhere in the vicinity of Gillian’s ear, and Gillian gets a wave of goosebumps. She strokes her thumb along the fabric of Meghan’s bra, and Meghan sighs, reaching up to hold onto the back of Gillian’s neck.

Gillian is so caught up in trying to decide what she wants to do first that she’s caught by surprise when Meghan pulls away just far enough to nudge her back toward the bed. Gillian takes a step back, and Meghan follows, and the look on her face makes Gillian feel warm in a way she can’t remember ever feeling. She feels distinctly out of control, and it terrifies her when she falls back onto the bed, until Meghan straddles her thighs and Gillian realizes that being out of control just means that she’s in Meghan’s control.

That comforts her immediately. Her body responds to Meghan’s touch even if her mind is still trying to understand how she could have gotten to a place where she’s so comfortable being unwound so obviously. Meghan’s hand sliding along her stomach feels right. 

Meghan opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead she spreads her fingers out, and both of them take in that sight. Gillian still isn’t used to her new, softer body, but she doesn’t mind it, and especially not with the way Meghan is looking at her, or the way Meghan’s hand is big enough to take up so much of her skin. She wants Meghan’s hands on her breasts, on her thighs, between them. She’s no longer sure whether she’s remembering those feelings or vividly imagining them, but for the moment it doesn’t matter. Meghan slides her hand up to touch Gillian over her bra, and somehow, stupidly, Gillian is shocked that Meghan knows exactly what she likes. Of course Meghan knows exactly what she likes. Meghan’s done this before. This isn’t the first time that Gillian’s been breathless, arching up into Meghan’s palm—it’s just the first time she remembers. 

It’s easier to relax when she remembers that. She can’t feel enough, so she arches her back and reaches behind her to unclasp her bra. She’s self conscious for a second when she tosses it away, but Meghan doesn’t hesitate, just braces herself with both hands on either side of Gillian’s shoulders and leans down to replace her hand with her mouth. It’s too good. Gillian squirms, but Meghan on top of her is more than enough weight to hold her in place, so she can’t move away from the sensation. Instead she ends up gasping quietly, and the rush of embarrassment she feels passes when Meghan doesn’t even react except to redouble her efforts, dragging her hot, open mouth across Gillian’s chest to the other side. 

Gillian clutches at the sheets, and when that doesn’t feel like enough she reaches for Meghan, holding onto her shoulders. Meghan lifts her head, then kisses Gillian again, and Gillian gets so lost in it, in the swipe of Meghan’s tongue along her lower lip, that it takes her a few second to register that Meghan is unbuttoning her jeans. Gillian tries to lift her hips to help, but Meghan is still straddling her thighs, so she can’t move enough. The spike of frustration she feels is swallowed up quickly by Meghan opening her mouth into the kiss, gripping Gillian by the hip with one hand, pressing her thumb into Gillian’s hipbone until Gillian breaks the kiss to sigh again.

“You okay?” Meghan asks, and Gillian nods wordlessly. 

She reaches for the button on Meghan’s jeans, and Meghan rolls off of her to kick her jeans away, giving Gillian the opportunity to do the same. Gillian manages a deep breath before Meghan is on top of her again, this time braves on one knee between Gillian’s. It’s a lot of skin on skin, but Meghan is moving slowly again, kissing the corner of Gillian’s mouth. It’s a tender gesture, the sort of gesture you expect from someone you’ve been with for years, and Gillian is just trying to hold on, both of her hands gripping Meghan’s shoulders. Meghan presses her knee up between Gillian’s legs, and a sound escapes Gillian that she’s not sure she’s heard before. 

She wants to rock against Meghan’s knee. Meghan must know that. Gillian must have done it before. In fact, she’s sure she’s done it before, even if she doesn’t _remember_ it, exactly. The instinct is there, and she stops trying to fight it once Meghan kisses her neck again. She wraps an arm around Meghan’s neck and grinds against Meghan’s knee, and this time it’s Meghan who sighs. 

Gillian is a mess. She can’t kiss Meghan and breathe at the same time, so she doesn’t try. Meghan eventually puts enough space between them for her to reach between Gillian’s legs. She moves her hand beneath Gillian’s underwear, and it’s such a relief, an immediate familiarity, like she’s been waiting for weeks to feel just that. And in a way she has, or at least her body has.

Meghan knows now exactly what a mess Gillian is for her, and Gillian is shocked to find she’s not embarrassed in the least. She’s not an exhibitionist, but she does sort of like that Meghan knows. Maybe she likes it because Meghan does, because the second Meghan touches Gillian she makes a soft, desperate sound that Gillian can feel from her head to her toes. 

“Gill,” Meghan murmurs, and Gillian is suddenly so close to the edge that she’s surprised, digging her nails into Meghan’s shoulders. Is that really all it takes? The barest brush of Meghan’s fingertips and the sound of her name in Meghan’s mouth?

Apparently.

She doesn’t want to, yet. She lifts her hips and pushes her underwear down, and Meghan tosses them away. Her lips are swollen from kissing Gillian, and her hair is coming loose from its braid, and Gillian is struck with the sudden urge to tell Meghan that she’s beautiful. It seems like too much, especially when Meghan’s hands are on her thighs again, pressing her legs apart. She’s afraid of what would come out of her mouth if she opened it.

Meghan, still in her underwear, leans down to kiss Gillian again. She has to rest on one elbow, but her free hand stays on Gillian’s inner thigh, creeping upward, and the anticipation has Gillian holding her breath. When Meghan finally touches her, Gillian slides her hands down from Meghan’s shoulders to her hips. She turns her head, biting her lips, and and when she opens her eyes she can see that Meghan’s not just watching her hand. She alternates between watching what she’s doing and watching Gillian’s face, and Gillian doesn’t think she’s ever seen someone do that with her before. It’s more attention than she’s ever gotten in her life. It’s not something she would have expected to like, but she doesn’t just like it, she’s desperate for it, for more of Meghan’s attention, for more of _everything_. 

And Meghan knows. She slides her fingers against Gillian again, and Gillian can feel her knees knock against Meghan’s hips. When Meghan stops sliding against her and slides into her, Gillian can’t keep quiet. It starts with a gasp, but once she’s inhaled it has to come out some way, and she groans, digging her heels into the bed. Meghan noses along Gillian’s cheek and kisses her jaw, and then just below her ear. She must know that Gillian isn’t going to last long, because she’s taking her time, and she only barely touches Gillian with her thumb, not giving her quite enough friction to get there.

GIllian loses track of everything. She ends up with a leg hooked over Meghan’s hip and a hand in Meghan’s hair, and that’s how they are when she comes back to herself, trembling on the edge, with Meghan’s hot breath against her neck. She groans again, and the latest surprise is that she finds she’s about to let Meghan’s name out. She doesn’t quite, but she doesn’t have to. She drops both feet to the bed again and ends up clamping her knees against Meghan’s hips, clinging to Meghan’s shoulders, and it goes on and on and on for longer than she can keep track of. Meghan holds her through it, smoothing her hair out of her face, kissing the side of her head and the top of her cheekbone, never moving her hand.

She does eventually, once Gillian’s legs finally stop shaking. She rests on her side, facing Gillian, who stays on her back, trying to get air back in her lungs. She remembers, all of a sudden, Meghan’s fingers against her hipbone, sticking to her skin. She remembers humidity and open windows, and Meghan’s skin warm from the sun, and the strong aftertaste of a beer she definitely hasn’t had to drink.

When Gillian turns her head, Meghan is chewing her lips. She’s not touching Gillian at all, and Gillian wishes that she was, but she doesn’t know how to ask for that, for tenderness she hasn’t earned. 

“Gill,” Meghan says, “I missed you.”

Something has definitely changed. Just Meghan’s voice is enough to bring something else back, like the first time they had kissed. A flood of memories that Gillian can’t parse through right now, but she knows she’s remembering. And she knows that Meghan can see it all over her face.

“We’ll have to do that sixty more times before everything’s back,” Gillian jokes hoarsely.

Meghan smiles, but it’s a sad smile. Gillian can remember that, too. She can remember waiting for Meghan outside of a locker room, after a game. She’s not sure where or when it was, but she can remember this look on Meghan’s face, and she can remember wrapping Meghan up in a hug. They were both in black jackets. The jackets had been on sale. They had never kept track of whose was whose.

Gillian spends ten seconds trying to decide how she can touch Meghan in a way that’s appropriate to where they are emotionally. Eventually she gives up and rolls onto her side, reaching for Meghan’s face, pulling her back into a kiss. Meghan is a little bit hesitant, cupping Gillian’s elbow in her hand, so Gillian shuffles closer, opening her mouth into the kiss. Meghan makes a surprised sound, curling closer somehow, twining their legs together. 

She wants to take Meghan’s bra off and roll her over and taste every inch of Meghan’s skin. (At one point Meghan’s skin had tasted like salt--like the ocean, and her hands got stuck in Gillian’s hair, and maybe they were on a beach, or a balcony, or somewhere they weren’t supposed to be). Instead she winds her arms around Meghan’s waist until there’s barely enough room to breathe. (The night after some funeral Gillian had held her like this, and Meghan had leaked tears into Gillian’s sweatshirt until she fell asleep, hands fisted into the hem). 

Meghan hooks her leg around Gillian’s hip, and Gillian touches her instinctively, the back of her hand brushing the inside of Meghan’s thigh. She’s slipped her fingers just under Meghan’s underwear before she realizes she’s doing it by muscle memory, and she panics but Meghan is there with her, exhaling into the space between them, gripping Gillian’s bicep.

Gillian moves Meghan’s underwear aside, and Meghan takes exactly what she wants, reaching down for Gillian’s forearm to guide her and rolling her hips forward into Gillian’s hand. Gillian is caught breathless by that, by Meghan _taking_ and not having to ask, but she knows that’s how Meghan is. She remembers that, as a fact, not as a specific memory. She wonders if she ever got Meghan to ask anyway, and files that question away for later. A lot later.

For the time being, she can only move her hand and watch. Meghan slides the hand on Gillian’s forearm back up her arm to her shoulder, and her fingers are trembling. When Gillian finally moves her hand instead of letting Meghan do the moving, Meghan groans out loud, with no attempt to quiet herself, and Gillian shudders, her mouth falling open. It’s a noise she wants to hear again and again. Luckily for her, it’s not a one-time thing. Meghan isn’t quiet, and Gillian loses herself again. 

It’s not hard to lose everything other than Meghan. She expects Meghan to last a lot longer than she did, but it doesn’t happen that way. Meghan’s leg creeps higher on her hip, and Gillian ends up shifting her weight forward, rocking her body closer to Meghan’s. That’s all it takes for Meghan to freeze, and then she’s quiet.

Gillian doesn’t stop her hand from moving. She wants to see how long she can make it go on while Meghan’s still shaking, and the answer is an impressively satisfying amount of time. When Meghan makes noise again it’s breathier and quieter, and she’s holding onto the back of Gillian’s neck the entire time like she needs the anchor. Meghan is the one to pull away, just enough to separate them. She breathes, eyes closed, for almost a full minute before she opens her eyes.

“We had sex on the beach,” Gillian says, suddenly, “in the Bahamas. You convinced me. It was late, we weren’t even supposed to be out there, it was a private resort beach, and you went down on me for thirty minutes and the whole time I thought we were gonna get caught.”

Meghan stares at her, wide-eyed, and then laughs incredulously.

“That’s what you remember?” she asks.

“It was good,” Gillian insists, “it was a good memory.”

Meghan doesn’t say anything to that. She just smiles, but it’s not a sad smile anymore, and Gillian is relieved.

“I remembered other things,” Gillian says. “I don’t know what yet, I can’t--but I know I was remembering. Us. Remembering what it was like.”

“What sex was like?” Meghan asks, but Gillian can tell there’s an answer she wants, and she’s glad she can give it honestly.

“Not just that,” she says, “just...what it was like, to be with you.”

Meghan reaches for Gillian’s hand, draws it to her mouth and kisses the center of her palm.

“This is what it was like,” Meghan says, and Gillian pulls her in for a kiss to keep from crying.


End file.
